


The Grenville Mission

by cincoflex



Series: Candy Shop [1]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: AU, Candy, F/M, heists galore, vigilantes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 04:05:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17911679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: In an alternative universe, the CSIs work for an underground organization headed up by Lady Heather.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Other fan writers love coffee shop or high school AUs; me, I love heists. And justice. And clever disguises. When I started Candy Shop I put all of that in there because honestly, these were the cleverest characters on TV and they deserved to show off what they could do in the name of justice. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it.

_“Rumor has it that there is an organization out there that can get anything done, for a fee. Some people think of it as a corporate version of the CIA, and others feel it’s more like some sort of commercial covert ops establishment, bouncing back and forth over the law as needed. I’m here to assure you it’s all an urban legend; our findings indicate that there is no such thing as the Candy Shop.”_

_\--John Negroponte, Director of National Intelligence_

 

The little bookstore at the end of Ojai Street in Henderson, Nevada was wedged between two taller buildings; it looked a bit squat between the bank and the pizzeria and most people passed it by without a second glance through the dusty front window with its peeling black and gold lettering that proudly proclaimed “The Book Hive.” Under that in smaller letters: ‘Books on all topics for all occasions. G. Grissom, proprietor.’

Sara Sidle paused from her vantage point across the street, lounging in the shade of the coffee shop and kept an eye on the Book Hive. So far it had been quiet to the point of being comatose: no customers in the last hour. She checked her watch again, and set her coffee down, debating with herself for a long moment. Nearly noon. Her movement caught the eye of the waitress behind the counter, and Sara knew she had to get moving now, or risk being remembered. Casually she fished in her purse for a reasonable tip and rose up, leaving the two dollars neatly wedged between the salt and pepper shakers. She put on her sunglasses and stepped out, glaring at the Book Hive with undisguised distaste.

Anyone looking at her would have seen a tall, rangy young woman with shoulder-length hair, dressed in a long cream sweater coat and forest-green linen slacks. The only item of true vanity was her handbag; a $12,000 Chloe Paddington in pewter. She hefted it up and strolled across the street all the while taking a quick, thorough look along the way. Light foot traffic into the bank, a few parked cars along Ojai, but none in front of the bookstore.

Reaching it, Sara paused and looked into the glass window, ignoring the black and gold painted hive with the little winged books buzzing around it. She fiddled with her sunglasses so that any passersby seeing her would assume she was toying with her own reflection. In truth, she was adjusting the infrared spectrum filter on the sunglasses, and peering into the depths of the bookstore. What she saw confirmed her contempt. “Sheesh, what an overstock of dust.”

Feeling a pang of regret for the unkindness of her words, Sara sighed and pulled open the door of the shop; above her head came the tinkle of a brass bell. The soft smell of leather, musty paper and wooden shelving hit her nose immediately. Sara parked her sunglasses on the top of her head and blinked, looking around. The cramped shop had tall bookcases with narrow aisles. No patrons were apparent, but behind the tall wooden counter by the right wall was a man perched on a stool, reading a book. Sara took him in for a long moment, committing his features to memory.

Wavy grey hair in need of a trim; a salt and pepper beard; long eyelashes and a pair of reading glasses sliding down his nose. He wore a black polo shirt and khaki pants and currently had a copy of Peterson’s First Guide to Insects of North America in his strong hands. He didn’t look up when she stepped closer, and Sara glanced at the counter. A crystal dish of candy sat at one end, and carefully, she selected a peppermint out of it.

Without glancing up, the man reached over and carefully plucked out a foil-wrapped Hershey’s Kiss. Sara waited a moment, and finally cleared her throat.

He looked up, and with grave courtesy handed her the chocolate. She in turn gave him the peppermint in the little formal ritual of identification and relaxed a little. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Peppermint.”

“Likewise, Miss Chocolate. I take it you brought your half of the file with you?” he asked, and in his pleasant tenor she heard the flat intonations of Chicago. Sara nodded, a little amused.

***

Grissom, AKA Mr. Peppermint, took a moment getting to his feet and fishing for a bookmark as he reluctantly closed the field guide. He’d known Miss Chocolate only by reputation up to this point and nothing had prepared him for this poised, elegantly dangerous woman on the other side of his counter. Despite the casual set of her shoulders he could see she was aware of every exit, every potential weapon or threat in the room. He set his book down.

She was pretty—that should have been a red flag right there, and he tried not to dwell on it. Miss Lollipop hadn’t mentioned anything about Miss Chocolate besides her gender and her formidable skills in surveillance and ops; he’d taken the assignment without bothering to give the enclosed photo more than a passing glance.

Nobody’s Candy Shop photo ever did them justice anyway; certainly not his own, now almost fifteen years old.

A ‘thump’ sounded; a scarred grey tabby appeared on the counter, cautiously eyeing Sara. She looked at him a moment, noting his ragged ears and long white whiskers. Behind the counter, Mr. Peppermint spoke again.

“This is Aramis. The other three are around, but they’re a bit shyer.”

Her grin flashed out, and gently she reached a hand to pat the cat, who arched happily up into her stroke. “Musketeers—nice.”

“They keep the mice and insects in line,” Mr. Peppermint agreed, and rose from his stool. Casually he stepped around the counter and moved to the door, closing it. After flipping the sign to read “Closed for lunch—back in an hour” he turned back to the woman. “Follow me, Miss Chocolate.”

He led the way down the center aisle of the narrow book shop, towards the rear of the store; Sara followed him, keeping her eyes on his broad back. It wasn’t difficult to appreciate the view ahead of her—not that she’d tell him. Rumor had it that Mr. Peppermint was a loner, both on the job and off; a rare specimen from academia who’d come to the Candy Shop through a very mysterious, roundabout route. She’d studied his file; watched him for two days already, and even now felt she knew less about him than when she’d started.

An enigma.

They reached the back, turned left out of view of the main browsing area, and reached a small fenced-off area that Sara recognized from her college days as a rare book cage. She watched him fish out a key and unlock it, then motion for her to enter. Sara paused, then stepped in, Mr. Peppermint right behind her. He closed the cage, and the minute he did so, it rattled faintly and began to descend. Sara reached out to curl a supporting hand around the mesh, amused. Mr. Peppermint caught her eye and shrugged a little. He had very blue eyes, she noted.

“A little cliché, but necessary.”

After a descent of roughly two stories, Sara felt the elevator stop. She watched as her companion opened the door again, onto a cavernous room hollowed out and reinforced by concrete.

A bunker of sorts, with a rounded feel to it; Sara thought of Hobbit holes. Long florescent lights illuminated the place, which was filled with worktables, computers, banks of filing cabinets and storage shelves. As she stepped out behind Mr. Peppermint, Sara realized that all of the furniture down here was wood—not a single piece in this cavern other than the computers was made of metal.

***

Grissom led the way to a conference table in the middle of the room and sat down, gesturing to a chair on the other side. He watched as Miss Chocolate seated herself gracefully, setting her bag on the table before fishing a file folder out of it.  
He frowned. “The bag is a liability, you know.”

“What?”

“The purse. Too expensive. Too . . . flashy,” he commented gently. “The sort of detail that gets noticed, and usually by the wrong person.” He watched her frown, and stroke the bag almost protectively.

“It could be a knock-off.”

“It’s not,” He replied with a hint of impatience. “But it’s not important right now. Let’s get this laid out and see what we’re doing.”

Grissom pulled out his own file and opened it, flipping through the pages. He had the odd-numbered ones, and handed them to Miss Chocolate, watching her efficiently collate them in running order with her even ones. When it was completed, she laid the top page down.

 

Grenville

Mission category: Recovery  
Selections: Peppermint/Chocolate  
Location: First President  
Time Frame: Face of the Clock  
Goodies: Help yourself

Grissom gave a thoughtful nod, and glanced over at Miss Chocolate, absently admiring her profile as she scanned the page.

She looked up to catch his eye. “So. We’re going to Washington in the next twelve days for a B and E and we can use any resources we want. Sounds relatively simple.”

“Almost too simple,” Grissom agreed, frowning a bit. “She could have handed this over to Jelly Bean if it was just a B and E.”

“He’s not as experienced with home versus office, especially for a second story job,” she murmured throatily. “Still a little too jumpy.”

“That’s why he’s a bean,” Grissom replied, trying not to let his faint annoyance show. It was true of course; the young cat burglar was still overeager and prone to rookie mistakes, but he was a quick study, and picked up suggestions with an open mind. Grissom wondered how many missions Miss Chocolate had already done with the Bean, and if they were on a real name basis yet.

He decided to ask, the next time he saw Greg.

Miss Chocolate turned the page, and a heavyset man scowled up at them from the page, his expression both annoyed and contemptuous. Grissom said nothing, watching Miss Chocolate out of the corner of his eye.

“Bruce Eiger. Yeah, well he looks like an ogre. Our client, apparently?”

“Miss Lollipop’s client,” Grissom corrected softly. “I know him by reputation—he owns three casinos in Vegas and is carries a lot of clout in politics here, most of it behind the scenes. Does he specify what the item to be recovered is?”

*** 

Sara looked through the typed page, skimming it quickly, aware that Mr. Peppermint was scoping her out a bit as she did so. It was habitual, she was sure; an agent at his level didn’t stay in the game without keeping a sharp eye on things. Spotting the bag—that had piqued her for a moment, especially since he was right, but what the hell—she wasn’t on the job.

Yet.

She made a tiny sound of surprise. “This is weird—we’re going to be looking for an eight millimeter movie camera and film?”

Mr. Peppermint’s eyes narrowed and Sara realized how blue they truly were now that he had them focused on the pages on the table. He ran a finger down the lines of print and blinked a little, startled himself.

“A Bell and Howell Zoomatic movie camera—interesting. That’s the same make used by Abraham Zapruder in Dallas back in nineteen sixty-two.”

Sara eyed him for a moment, and noted the brightness of his expression; she felt a flush of attraction and covered it by smirking. “And THAT’S the sort of thing only a . . .”

“ . . . Geek would know? Possibly,” Mr. Peppermint admitted while rubbing his bristly chin. “All the same, it’s curious, Miss Chocolate. The camera itself isn’t that valuable. A man as rich as Bruce Eiger could buy and sell dozens of them without a second thought. That implies that the recovery is really all about--?”

“The film,” she finished, nodding. “Which makes sense, and yet doesn’t at the same time. Whatever is on the film could have been transferred to disc or computer by now.”

But he was shaking his head now. “Not without specialized equipment and people to do it. If Bruce Eiger has contracted the Candy Shop to retrieve his film, then you can bet that whatever’s on it is probably highly scandalous. Whoever has it won’t risk a leak by transferring it just yet.”

“You don’t KNOW that,” Sara argued gently. Mr. Peppermint cocked his head, his expression slightly stubborn.

“I don’t—but after enough time on blackmail, you get a sense for these things. Let’s see what else Miss Lollipop’s put in the file for us to consider. Coffee?”

“Yes please,” Sara murmured. She waited as he prepared and brought two fragrantly steaming mugs back to the wooden table, not touching any of the file pages in the interim. There was too much to look at in the cavern anyway: antique maps and prints on the walls; stands of walking sticks and umbrellas; glass cases with rare books in them; a stock market ticker tape machine, humming steadily and spewing strands of paper into a woven basket.

Definitely a Hobbit hole, she decided.

Echoing softly in the cavern came music; Sara caught the soft sounds of Toccata and Fugue in D minor. Bach. Yeah, that fit Mr. Peppermint pretty well. A classic.

She sipped her coffee, savoring the richness of the brew, and seeing her enjoy it, he did the same with his own mug. For a moment they relaxed in each other’s company, simply riding on the pleasure of coffee and breathing space. Sara nodded. “Thanks. It’s a good blend, but I don’t recognize it.”

“Twenty Blue Devils—out of Tahiti, actually. Not the easiest to get, but I prefer it.” He murmured in reply. Sara smiled and set her mug down.

“There you go—there’s YOUR vanity, Mr. Peppermint.”

***

“My vanity?” Grissom asked, catching the hint of amusement in Miss Chocolate’s tone, and not understanding. She pointed to his mug of coffee as she arched an eyebrow, and for a moment it dawned on him how expressively cute she looked.

“I have a fondness for expensive handbags, and you have a weakness for expensive coffee. Our tells; in point of fact.” He scowled a little, annoyed at her quick insight, and she chuckled triumphantly, laying a thin hand on the file. “Shall we?”

“Certainly. Let me move my mug so I don’t spill my coffee on your purse,” came his dry reply.

She dimpled at his tone, taking it in stride, and pushed the papers closer, hitching her chair as well, her elbows resting on the scarred wooden surface. Grissom turned the photo of Bruce Eiger over, and the second photo under left him slightly stunned. Next to him, Miss Chocolate gave a low gasp of mingled disgust and amusement. Grissom nodded.

“At least OUR little sins are socially acceptable . . .” he observed while looking down at the grainy photo of Bruce Eiger in a diaper and booties, lying on a bearskin rug.

Miss Chocolate shuddered delicately. “Ew. I have a disturbing idea of what’s on the film now.”

“Yes, I think it would be a safe bet that it’s probably something to do with his . . . hobby,” Grissom agreed, quickly flipping the photo. A notation in familiar handwriting was scrawled on the back, and Miss Chocolate read it out-loud.

“Client requests a meeting with the both of you at his home this evening at nine. RSVP, your discretion,” she murmured. “Ummmm—"

“We ought to go,” Grissom murmured softly as he studied her face. “Incognito of course.”

Miss Chocolate lifted her chin, and her lips twisted a bit as she nodded. “If only to be thorough,” she agreed, with a hint of distaste.

They finished reading the rest of the file, which included floor plans, contacts, contingency options, travel and accommodation information, and when done, Grissom carefully set the papers in a Pyrex dish and ignited them; Miss Chocolate watching as he did so.

She smiled up at him. “You know, with all the technology that’s available nowadays I can’t quite catch why Miss Lollipop is so . . . old-fashioned about files.”

“For precisely that reason,” Grissom mused. “Reconstruction of ashes is still much more difficult than cracking a hard drive and the residue is more easily dispersed. I know it’s a throwback to earlier tradition, but against the hacking and tracking prevalent now, Miss L prefers to err on the side of safety.”

“A classicist,” Miss Chocolate murmured in a low voice, rising up.

Grissom escorted her back up to the bookstore and rang up a selection for her, tucking it into a plastic bag with The Book Hive logo printed on it.

Surprised, Miss Chocolate took the purchase and winked at him, tickled at his choice: The Spy Who Came in From the Cold. Grissom nodded, handing her a bookmark as well.

She noted the place and time he’d written on it and nodded back, then sauntered out of the store after petting a curious Porthos lounging in the front window. Grissom watched her sail off, wondering idly if he should shave before nightfall, or after arriving in Washington.

*** *** ***

Miss Lollipop looked over the expanse of her office desk at the man on the other side, feeling a flare of fondness for him. Sugar Daddy had always been one of her favorites, despite the fact that she knew she shouldn’t become attached to her agents. He sat in the chair, a mild expression on his snub-nosed face, his hands folded in his lap.

Miss Lollipop leaned over the desk and laid a hand on the file in front of her. “You truly think she’s ready?”

Sugar Daddy gave a shrug, but his modest grin spoke volumes. “What can I say? She’d my kid; she’s ready.”

“You’ll supervise?”

“Oh absolutely. It’ll be like her driving test all over again, which God knows was probably harder than this will be. I’m telling you, Ellie’s ready.”

“Sugar Baby,” Lollipop corrected him, but gently. He was such a doting father, and the girl was a genuine sweetheart; after all, nothing brought a family together like assassination. Sugar Daddy gave a little nod at the reprimand and cleared his throat.

“Sugar Baby,” he amended. “Since we were planning on a vacation, we can schedule this on the way and still get the time off.”

Lollipop smiled a little more warmly, and nodded. She pushed the file across the desk to him. “The Grand Canyon, right? I’ll expect a postcard.”

“I’ll bring you a souvenir—you like rugs?” he leaned forward and took the file, smiling. “A nice Navajo one to go with your waiting room.”

That made her laugh; she walked him to the door and hugged him lightly, glad to see him looking upbeat. He squeezed her back, and cleared his throat. “Thanks, Lolly. I’ll be back in two weeks.”

She patted his shoulder. “Go, have a good time, Jim. Two weeks.”

As he stepped out, Lollipop looked over at her receptionist’s desk. Judy glanced over and shook her head. “Nobody else has an appointment today, Doctor Marazek. Your agenda’s clear.”

“Thank you, Judy. I’m going down to the therapy rooms for a while. Page me if a patient calls.”

“Yes Ma’am,” Judy squeaked. Even after six years she was still in awe; still thrilled to be working for the most prestigious psychiatrist in Las Vegas.

Lollipop smiled, striding out of the Southwest-themed waiting room and to the bank of elevators beyond it. She took the far right one, and once inside, fished out a small silver key from a chain around her neck. It fit into a tiny keyhole cunningly hidden behind part of the paneling over the buttons. She turned it and a chime rang out, followed by a recorded male voice, low and almost seductive. “Confirm?”

“Miss Lollipop.”

“Thank you.” The elevator began to descend smoothly, dropping down all the floors and beyond the basement level, finally coming to a stop deep underground a few minutes later.

The door slid open, and Miss Lollipop stepped out into a carpeted elegant hallway. The air here was clean, the filters humming gently keeping everything comfortably cool. Miss Lollipop stepped out and turned left, moving down towards a series of double doors at the far end. They were gleaming brass art deco doors with frosted windows. She reached out and pressed her palm against the security scanner; it flashed for a moment, and a soft man’s voice echoed out: “Identity reconfirmed. Welcome to the range, Miss Lollipop.”

She pulled the door open, and the sound of gunfire rang out, echoing in the wide chamber. Ahead of her she saw the long lean back of Licorice, and next to him the shorter, muscular frame of Jaw Breaker as they stood in one of the booths, both firing round after round into a distant target.

Admiring the pair of them, she stood, arms crossed and waited; they’d sense her presence in a moment. It came a few seconds later, Licorice turning first, his warm green eyes widening, and his little nod respectful. Jaw Breaker caught his partner’s move and looked over his shoulder, peeling off his ear guards as he smiled. “Oh! Didn’t see you there, ma’am,” came his Texas drawl.

Both of them holstered their weapons in the slots along the firing booth walls, then turned fully to face her.

“Miss Lollipop,” Licorice murmured, his voice low and warm. She nodded back to them and stepped forward.

“Gentlemen. I’m delighted to see you keeping up your skills—it’s gratifying to see your dedication.”

“Dedication nothing—Mr. Cinnamon’s upped the gun locker requirements,” came Jaw Breaker’s annoyed amusement. “He says if we can’t bullseye ninety percent in three different targets we don’t get anything from the Toy Box.”

“Ah,” Miss Lollipop commiserated with a smile. “Well I did give him the prerogative to set the standards.”

Licorice nodded, his dreads slithering almost to his shoulders, looking elegant against his green ribbed sweater. “The problem is, he wants it for every make in stock—qualifying for all of them is going to take us at least a week.”

Jaw Breaker nodded. “Yeah. Right now we’re set on most of the handguns and non-projectiles, but it’s going to take a while to get qualified with the rifles and higher caliber stuff.” He pointed with his jaw towards a door at the far end of the firing range. “And most of that can’t be done down here, that’s for sure.”

“We’ll make arrangements. At the moment I have an assignment for you, if you’re both available.”

Licorice looked at Jaw Breaker, who gave a smile and a shrug. “I’m open.”

“Same here. Any general hint as to the nature?” Licorice asked Lollipop.

“I need you to run interference tonight. Mr. Peppermint is meeting with a client who’s a bit of a control freak. He may have his own muscle try to intimidate our associate.”

Jaw Breaker made a scoffing noise. “The dude thinks he’s going to intimidate Mr. Peppermint? Not gonna happen; not in a million years.”

Lollipop smiled, cocking her head slightly. “I agree, but it won’t stop our client from trying to look big. The problem is that his money allows him to hire help above the average street punk, and I don’t want anything to distract Mr. Peppermint from the job at hand.”

“Gotcha,” Licorice nodded, “You want us in the shadows.”

“I want you to BE the shadows,” Lollipop agreed. “It shouldn’t take long. Seven Hills, around nine, so plan accordingly. And you’ll both get a bonus if Mr. Peppermint fails to spot you.”

She strode off, leaving the two men chuckling softly behind her; they watched her go, both of them gazing after her for a long moment. Jaw Breaker sighed gustily. “Damn.”

Licorice laughed again. “Don’t even think it, Nick. The lady’s waaaaay out of your league, and your boss to boot.”

“I know, I know, but still—it’s gotta be a crime to be that smart and look that good.”


	2. Chapter 2

_“The Candy Shop is nothing more than a piece of personalized media propaganda started by the CIA so they have someone to blame when their own operations fall flat. That’s why you’ll never hear anything in depth about it as an organization. It’s no more real than the Tooth Fairy, or the Easter Bunny.”_

**\--Gordon England, Deputy Secretary of Defense**

 

Sara looked around at the bus stop, feeling a little tense. It was nearly nine, and the long shadows were stretching down the street. Most of the nearby businesses were closed, and in the hills, lights twinkled in home windows.

A Mercedes pulled up to the curb; an S class, dark and sleek. Sara shifted on the bench preparing to draw her weapon when the window rolled down and a familiar voice called to her. “Get in.”

Moving quickly, she pulled open the door and slid into the passenger seat, feeling a sense of relief. “You’re late.”

“We’re making a statement. A man like Bruce Eiger hates to be kept waiting, especially by people he needs,” came Mr. Peppermint’s calm analysis. “Therefore, we need to walk in strong and make sure he understands who’s really in charge. Nice wig.”

“Thanks,” Sara murmured, stroking the long, shoulder-length blonde strands. “You look . . . imposing.”

Mr. Peppermint wore a black suit, shirt and tie, all expensively tailored and neat. The black patch over his right eye gave him a slightly dangerous mien; a hint of pirate mixed with the world-weariness of an assassin. He managed a wry face and pulled the Mercedes away from the curb. “The word is ‘theatrical’ but again, given the nature of the client, it’s better to reconfirm his fears than to let him get the upper hand.”

Sara nodded, impressed and reassured by this insight. She shifted a little, and her sage green power suit skirt rose a bit higher on her thighs as they drove on towards Seven Hills.

*** *** ***

Grissom strove to keep his eyes on the road, but it was difficult not to give in to a temptation to peek at his companion. She sat demurely in the passenger seat, long, cool and blonde for the moment, her eyes hidden by a pair of gold and tortoiseshell Mimi Vu sunglasses, her mouth done up in a blush of hot pink lipstick. The little green power suit showcased her fabulous legs, and Grissom bit his tongue to keep his focus on driving.

Miss Chocolate was certainly dangerous in more ways than one. He thought about the quick review he’d given her file only hours earlier, the facts dry and sparse: Masters in Physics from Berkeley; three years with the SFPDCL; a two-year stint with the FBI as a forensics liaison and then recruited by Miss Lollipop and used mostly for West Coast work the past two years. Somewhere along the line Miss Chocolate had picked up a gun license, two false IDs and a little bit of a drinking problem.

Mr. Peppermint wondered if she knew that last part was in her file, then dismissed it. Miss Lollipop knew ALL their sins; all their transgressions and foibles. He was sure his own file mentioned his mild Asperger’s syndrome and his hearing loss, now repaired.

They were only human after all; everyone at the Candy Shop was linked by this lonely and noble vocation, but just as prone to hurt as anyone else.

And just as prone to temptation, he acknowledged to himself, shooting a quick glance at the woman next to him. He couldn’t read Miss Chocolate’s gaze behind her sunglasses, but her smile was gentle. “The eye patch looks, um . . . dashing.”

“It’s one-way—I can see through it just fine, but if Eiger tries to turn us in, he’ll be off on his description of me.”

“Oh cool—is that a Gum Drop creation?” she asked politely. They were pulling up to a gated driveway, the car moving under a floodlight now. Grissom shook his head.

“Not this one. He’s modified versions for the rest of the Shop, but I made the prototype. Are your lenses on?”

“Night vision, but I’ll switch to scan once we get inside,” she murmured. As the Mercedes pulled up, the gate opened automatically, and Grissom brought the car up to the steps of the mansion. He climbed out and scanned the yard intently as Miss Chocolate slid from her seat and fiddled with the corner of her sunglasses.

“Expecting trouble?” she asked, throatily. He made a negative sound, and turned.

“Always . . . but not tonight. We’ve got a few goodies in the wings.”

*** *** ***

Sara was tempted to look around and see if she could find the backup out in the landscaped yard, but training made her look towards the house instead, and toss her blonde hair back a little. Mr. Peppermint joined her after stepping around the car, and whispered in a low voice.

“Two . . . one on behind the left column of the driveway gate, and the other in the dark gap by the hedge.”

“How do you know they’re ours?” Sara asked, mounting the steps with him, falling into his pace. Mr. Peppermint gave a thoughtful shrug, and she watched the corner of his mouth turn up.

“Because those are the spots _I_ would have picked if I were backing up someone. Nobody challenged us at the gate, and that means whatever show of force Eiger plans to make will be inside the house. Are you outfitted?” he asked, knowing the answer. Sara nodded slightly.

“Glock twenty-two from the Toy Box. I have a knife as well,” she added, and knew from Mr. Peppermint’s quick glance that he was trying to figure out where it was holstered. Let him keep guessing, she decided with a small grin.

“Glock thirty-one. And an ace up my sleeve,” he admitted when they reached the top step. Carefully Mr. Peppermint pushed the doorbell, and low heavy chimes rang out. The two of them made faces at each other.

“Pretentious,” Sara murmured.

“Off-key,” Mr. Peppermint added.

The door opened, and a mountain peered out at them. Calling the man ‘huge’ was a misnomer. The adjective ‘huge’ tiptoed away, taking ‘enormous’ and ‘gigantic’ with it as well. Massive stayed, and Sara fought the frisson of fear rising up in her at the sight of the mammoth manservant in the doorway.

“Hi. Is your daddy home?” Mr. Peppermint cheerily inquired. The monolith in butler livery growled slightly, barring his teeth. In one swift move, Mr. Peppermint jabbed his folded knuckles into the man’s Adam’s apple, and brought up a quick knee to his groin; the butler’s growl slid up from bass to soprano squeak as he folded like a cheap lawn chair. Sara blinked behind her sunglasses, stunned at the speed and precision of the attack.

Mr. Peppermint sighed, slid his hands in the pockets of his trousers and glided past the man without looking back. “Never mind—we’ll let ourselves in.”

Sara followed, belated touching the temple piece of her sunglasses to switch the filters, and immediately the roomy foyer was bathed in a green haze in her line of vision. Two glowing spots showed up—one at the base of the curving stairway and one over the doorway leading into a hangar-sized living room. She cleared her throat and Mr. Peppermint instantly caught her gestures, nodding.

“So he knows we’re in. Good—let’s go meet the man.”

They climbed the curving staircase together, falling into sync as naturally as they had before. The stroll down the hallway was uneventful, and at the end, the double doors were slightly ajar. Sara paused when Mr. Peppermint did; his brows drew together for a moment and he whispered.

“Second thug, just inside the door—see the shadow?” he pointed out. Sara caught the flicker across the light through her lenses and nodded. Studying the doors, she murmured back in an equally soft voice.

“They open outward. We could . . ."

“Let’s,” he agreed. They stepped forward and each yanked a door wide, exposing another hulk standing sheepishly there. Sara sauntered forward, smiling at him, then stomped hard on the top of his shoe, her high heel stabbing in a swift jab of pain. The thug bent forward, only to catch his nose on her rising knee. A spectacular gout of blood sprayed out, and Sara neatly sidestepped the mess as the wounded man dropped on all fours, bellowing in pain.

From behind his dashing eye patch, Mr. Peppermint gave her a sweet smile of approval, stepped around the bodyguard, and strolled into the room. He cleared his throat as he looked at the stunned man behind the huge mahogany desk. “Mr. Eiger?”

“You attacked my bodyguard! I’ll sue your ass off—no provocation, that’s assault!” came the outraged bellow of the bearish figure behind the blotter.

“Yes do that, please. Not only with the press and media be amused beyond belief at the charge that a hundred and twelve pound woman disarmed a two hundred and eighty pound ex-con, but they’ll be sure to ask what the circumstances were,” Mr. Peppermint pointed out gently. Sara felt a shiver of delight at his cool, calm delivery; the man was unflappable, and she stepped to his side, feeling a little tickle of warmth inside. Behind them the moaning man was attempting to get to his feet, and in front of them the client, Bruce Eiger, was angrily grinding his teeth. Finally he curtly nodded.

“Fine. When I contracted you people to retrieve my personal property, I didn’t think it was going to involve violence.”

*** *** ***

Grissom sighed inwardly; bullies were always the same, no matter how old. He waited the man out, thinking about how sweetly Miss Chocolate had taken out the guard behind them. Nice moves, efficient and sleek. She obviously had some martial arts training, and wasn’t afraid to go physical if needed. That was a bonus. Not that he wasn’t able to handle himself in a fight, but the point was to strike first, and hard enough to end it in the first minute if you could.

Clearly she knew that too. He wondered if she liked calamari.

“What the hell . . . you’re here, so let’s get down to business. I want my camera back, and I want it as soon as your stupid crew can get it out of the Senator’s house. I’m paying top dollar for discretion and speed here, so I don’t know why you’re wasting time talking to me instead of doing the damn job I’m paying you for,” Eiger growled, puffing his cigar.

Grissom didn’t look at Miss Chocolate, but her felt her presence at his side. Quietly he spoke up. “YOU requested the meeting, Mr. Eiger,” he pointed out. At his words, Eiger flushed, and viciously stubbed out his cigar, a tactic to buy time.

“Yeah, well I wanted to see if I was going to get my money’s worth.”

Grissom gave a quirky little shrug. “We efficiently dispatched two bodyguards and made our way up to your study in less than three minutes. At this moment my associate has already located your panic room behind the wainscoting and your Chubb Fortress wall safe behind the Caravaggio over your head, so unless you need some further test of our competence, I think it’s past your bedtime.”

Bruce Eiger blanched a little, and leaned forward, his ursine expression shifting from annoyance to fleeting panic. He swallowed hard and lowered his voice. “All right, all right—you’ve got balls, I’ll give you that. Fine. I just need a little reassurance that I’m not trading one blackmailer for another. I’ve got enough dirt on the Senator to take him down, easy, but now that he has that damned camera we’re in a stalemate I don’t appreciate.”

Miss Chocolate spoke up, her voice low and flat. “Then since we’ve passed the audition, let’s get down to business. My associate and I don’t care about the contents of your home movie as long as it’s consensual and legal. Since our director would never have taken your case otherwise, you’re going to have to trust us. Are we done here?”

Grissom kept still, aware of a little soundless moan in the back of his throat at Miss Chocolate’s seductive alto. For the first time in years his libido was stirring on the job, and the sensation was disconcerting, He took comfort in the thought that if the woman beside him was getting under his skin it had to be ten times worse for Eiger, judging by the hungry look on Baby Bear’s face.

“Uhhh, yeah. So w-when do I get my movie camera back?” came the man’s stammer. Grissom slowly turned to Miss Chocolate, delighted to find her mirroring his move. They both looked at Eiger.

“When the job is done, Mr. Eiger. We’ll be in touch,” Grissom commented firmly. They turned to go, and he reached in his pocket, pulling out something small. He tossed it onto the desk where it made a small clattering noise and turned to join Miss Chocolate heading out the door. The two of them moved quickly down the long hall again, brushing past the guard still curled up on the carpet of the study.

“What was that?” Miss Chocolate demanded, not looking at him when they reached the stairs. Grissom shot her a lofty smirk.

“Diaper cream.”

“You didn’t!” came her slightly scandalized whisper as they crossed the foyer and out the double doors. Grissom said nothing, letting his serene expression carry the day as they climbed into the Mercedes and followed the circle of the driveway back to the gate. Before reaching it though, he slowed, unrolled the window and fished into his suit jacket, pulling out a small compact handgun. Carefully he took aim and fired; once towards the left column of the gate, and another shot twenty feet further along the hedge. Instantly flares of lurid pink lit up the targets, revealing two men moving sheepishly to stomp the smoking signals out.

“No bonuses,” Grissom murmured gently as he peeled off his eye patch; next to him, Miss Chocolate broke into a husky laugh.

“Harsh, Mr. Peppermint.”

“Better me than a grown man in a diaper, Miss Chocolate,” he cheerfully reminded her as they drove on through the gate and out into the dark street.

*** *** ***

Sara pulled her wig off as soon as she reached the hotel room, carefully setting it on the stand on the bathroom counter. She wasn’t as fond of the Valley Blonde as she was of a few of the others, but it traveled well and was one of the easiest to anchor down. Kicking off her heels, she began undoing the jacket of her suit and fished out her cell phone, hitting the speed dial as she wandered through the room and let the carpeting tickle and soothe her feet.

The phone rang. Idly she checked her watch; he should still be up, it wasn’t that late. Finally the click came over the line. “H’lo?”

“Hey babe, it’s me. Did I wake you?”

“Sare! No, I, uh, fell asleep in front of the TV. Long day—we had a couple of freeway collisions this afternoon. Soo . . . you’re in Washington, right?” came the sleepy male voice. Sara let herself fall backwards on the bed and bounced a little, smiling.

“Actually, my flight got cancelled, so I’ve got a layover tonight in Vegas. Wish you were here,” she murmured, hearing a low laugh in response.

“Yeah me too. I love slot machines.”

“I hope that’s not the only thing you love,” Sara chided, hating the note of neediness in her tone. They’d been together for seven months now, and she still carried the guilt of not being completely honest. The fiction of forensic consultant weighed on her thoughts, but Sara wasn’t sure Hank was ready for the truth.

“Come on, you know it’s not the only thing,” he replied. In the little pause hanging between them on the line came a faint voice, one so distant that Sara thought she imagined it.

_(“Hank, is that her?”)_

“So you’re going to be in the capital tomorrow, that’s great. I always wanted to go when I was a kid,” came his voice, louder in her ear, sounding too casual. Sara tensed.

Another pause, but this one was dead quiet.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah. Listen, I have to go, so . . . I’ll talk to you . . . later . . . “ she mumbled, feeling the heat roll up her face, feeling her hands go icy cold. Hank’s voice echoed through the connection.

“Sara? You okay? Listen I’ll ca—”

She shut the phone off and tossed it on the floor, then dropped an arm over her eyes.

Sara lay that way on the bed for a long, long time.

*** *** ***

Grissom hung his suit up and poured himself a glass of milk, then turned on his computer. The screensaver of tarantulas vanished; replaced by cheery news that he had mail. As he went through the various notes, an IM window from HndSpkr81 popped open. Grissom sighed. He typed in, //hi mom//

//hi honey. I tried to call earlier but you were out?//

//I went // Grissom paused, wondering what to type; his mother didn’t know about his alternative profession, and calling it a date would only bring on questions he didn’t want to answer at the moment. //to a movie.//

//Oh that’s nice. With someone?//

//By myself. Saw The Spy Who Came In From the Cold again.//

//Richard Burton, oh yes. Your aunt Alice loved him in Where Eagles Dare.//

They chatted a bit, and Grissom thought the conversation was going pretty well until his mother asked the question again. THE question.

//So honey, have you heard from Joan lately?//

//No mom. I’m not seeing her anymore. You know that.// he typed back, fingers hitting the keys a little harder than necessary. It had been over a year since Joan had told him she needed space. Grissom had never really understood that phrase; a simple ‘I don’t want to date you anymore’ would have been much easier to understand.

//Oh well. I was just hoping.// came his mother’s typed response, and Grissom felt a surge of loving exasperation at the sight of it. He loved his mother very much; she’d done a good job raising him and yet it was sort of sad that she still didn’t seem to catch the nuances of his moods, or the weather of his temper.

He couldn’t blame her and he couldn’t bring himself to depress her further, so he typed in, //Met someone new at the store today. I’m pretty sure she’ll come back again.//

His mother responded with cautious glee. //Oh that’s great honey. Is she nice?//

Grissom thought about that for a moment. Certainly Miss Chocolate hadn’t been nice to Bruce Eiger’s goon, but the memory of her husky laugh and dancing brown eyes made him smile at the screen, and his fingers flew over the keys with a light ‘tocking’ sound. //Very. Were you able to ask David to watch the shop for me starting tomorrow?//

//Yes. He said he’d be happy to do it while you’re at the bookseller’s convention. Come and see me before you go—I’ll give you a list of what I want, all right?//

//All right mom. But can you cut down on the Barbara Cartlands? You know the looks I get when I buy those.//

// :p // his mother typed back //Mix them in with a few Matt Helms and nobody will say a word. When’s your flight?//

//Ten twenty-three. I’ll see you around eight-thirty tomorrow before I leave. Night mom.//

//Goodnight, Gil.//

*** *** ***

They didn’t sit together on the plane, although it was the same flight.

At the check-in at McCarran, Sara barely recognized Mr. Peppermint, and it took all her willpower not to grin at the sight of him in his faded jeans and sheepskin jacket, a Chicago Cubs baseball cap on his head. He carried a battered backpack and a plastic thermos of coffee that the security officials inspected suspiciously before handing it back to him. At the gate he sprawled in one of the plastic seats and pulled out a battered Tom Clancy novel, reading it with his lips faintly moving.

Sara put on her sunglasses and bit her lips, unsure if he was trying to make her laugh or not. Certainly the man a few seats away wasn’t the quiet neatly groomed bookstore manager she’d met yesterday, or even the elegantly dangerous operative of last night. In any case, the sight of him mumbling his way through Patriot Games was enough to lighten her mood, and she shifted in her seat, pulling a day planner from her straw purse, thumbing through the pages and pretending to make a notation here and there. When she looked up, Mr. Peppermint caught her eye.

He winked.

Sara did grin, and wondered if his thermos was filled with Twenty Blue Devils.

The call came for boarding and they mingled in the crowd moving down the ramp to the plane. Sara found her seat and stowed her purse in the overhead luggage compartment. The flight took off on time, and Sara idly watched the steward go through the required safety drill, wondering if there was a marshal on this flight, and where Mr. Peppermint was sitting. The thought that he was on the same plane was the more comforting one, and gradually Sara fell asleep, scrunching her long body up in the cramped seat.

*** *** ***

Grissom tried to concentrate on his book; he’d read enough Clancy to have a good idea how the plot would unfold, but his mind was too caught up in the details of the upcoming mission. It had been a while since he’d been to Georgetown, and although it had been a mild winter he remembered how damp it could get. All he needed was a head cold while trying to case the Senator’s brownstone.

The timeline was still loose, but Miss Lollipop had assured him that the Senator was hosting a final dinner party on Friday before flying back to his home state for a two-week vacation. The townhouse would be empty and searchable then. Grissom considered his options—termite inspector wasn’t his favorite, but it usually permitted him widespread access to a location while electrician let him carry bags of tools in with impunity.

And in either case, he smiled to himself, Miss Chocolate would look good in a jumpsuit.

The plane landed at Dulles, adding to the late afternoon rush of passengers moving through the terminal. Briefly Grissom caught sight of Miss Chocolate rolling her luggage away from the Claims area, chatting away into her cell phone and looking like any other high-powered executive on a business trip. She strode out to the taxi stand and climbed into a waiting cab while Grissom made his way to the car rental counter to pick up his reservation.

Half an hour later he was pulling in to the parking lot of the Liberty Guest House, checking in to his favorite room; the one in the back north-west corner. Outside the window was a towering pine, and the view overlooked the garden in the back yard. Grissom unpacked and checked his watch, aware he should eat at some point soon. Once he was done he wandered down and settled in on the front porch, paperback in hand.

A taxi pulled up in the overcast twilight, and Grissom watched Miss Chocolate climb out, tipping the driver. He didn’t look as she passed by, but felt something light dropped into his lap.

A foil-wrapped piece of Dove chocolate. Carefully Grissom undid the dark blue wrapper and read the little note on the inside: _‘Have dinner with a friend.’_

Well, that was a clear invitation.

With a thoughtful expression he ate the candy and stood up, rubbing the stiffness out of his lower back, then headed inside, to do just as directed.

*** *** ***

Sara looked at the drawing on the Formica tabletop, concentrating hard. She and Mr. Peppermint were at the back booth of Waffle World, idly sketching with dry erase markers while they ate. The floor plan was small enough to be covered by a napkin, and she studied it carefully. “So there are two places in the townhouse where we need to look specifically—the study and the bedroom. What are our options?”

“We’ve got paperwork that will get us in the house as termite inspectors,” he told her with a wry smile. “We’ll call ahead and lay the groundwork with the maid for a visit. If we can locate the camera and make the switch, we’ll do it then. If not, then Miss Lollipop will wrangle us a dinner party invitation as Professor and Mrs. Pfefferminz.”

“The Pfefferminzes. Why can’t we go as the Schokolades?” she demanded in a mock-serious voice. Mr. Peppermint’s mouth twitched, but he refused to smile. Carefully he cleared his throat.

“Because I have an entire identity kit already based around Professor Pfefferminz: driver’s license, credit cards, Museum passes—it’s solid enough to pass scrutiny,” he explained. “And given the level of security the Senator maintains, I’d prefer it.”

Sara nodded, vastly amused at his slight stubbornness. The man had a shy charm to him that he was probably completely unaware of, and his little rise to her tease was fun. Carefully she looked again at the floor plan. “Termite inspector tomorrow afternoon, and professor tomorrow night. Sounds . . . busy.”

“A bit,” he admitted. “Can you run an Arado?”

Sara frowned, thinking. “Yeah, as long as it’s not too heavy. So—what are we going to do when we FIND the safe?”

Mr. Peppermint thrust out his jaw a little and looked down at the doodle on the table. He sighed. “Cracking a safe generally isn’t that hard when you’ve got lots of time. If we can get lucky, we might be able to manage it tomorrow, but if not, we’ll wait until the Senator leaves for his vacation and then work around the housekeeper if it comes to that.”

Sara looked at him, cocking her head. He blinked back at her and eventually she smiled. “Okay, sounds like a plan.”

They finished eating and Mr. Peppermint drove them back to the B&B he let her go in first and Sara went to her room, her good mood fading as she reached it. Her cell phone was still off, and she planned to keep it that way; at least until the job here was done.

As she showered and got ready for bed, Sara considered again Miss Lollipop’s offer to relocate her closer to the Main Shop. Initially she’d worried that it was because of the drinking, but Miss Lollipop assured her it wasn’t—that Vegas was just a more central hub for Candy runs all over the country. But Sara loved San Francisco, and the thought of leaving the _Boston Bohemian_ behind was almost too much to bear. Sure it was in poor shape, and she’d had offers on it, but it was still the best home she’d had in years.

A home of her own.

Sighing, Sara tried not to think of Hank. She burrowed down under the comforter and thought instead of the file facts on Mr. Peppermint.

Odd, really—she knew a few other agents at the Shop, and was on a first name basis with them; none of this codename stuff in private. Greg was Greg, and even Heather herself had urged Sara to address her by first name. But somehow the formality of the Candy Shop designation fit with the man in the other room; even though she was perfectly aware of his identity it just felt right to continue to call him Mr. Peppermint.

Single. Educated in Biology with a specialty in entomology, more specifically forensic entomology. Several years with the LAPD and then for some reason he chose to drop out of sight and teach at an obscure college in Minnesota for several years. Sara wondered what had driven him off. Wondered what had brought him back, but not to the LAPD.

And thinking of that, she fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

_“Off the record? They’re ex-Intelligence agents; if not ours, then trained by somebody out there—Mossad maybe or M15. They’re too good to be amateurs and too well-known to be taken lightly. Trust me, they’ll slip up somewhere and then we’ll have them.”_

**\--Louis Freeh, Former Director, FBI**

The housekeeper was stubborn, at first, insisting that ‘Senatoor Bron’ hadn’t told HER about any termite inspection. Grissom kept his voice low and reasonable as he chewed ferociously on a wad of gum, reassuring her over and over again that he had the Senator’s signature on the work order, and that the inspection wouldn’t take very long at all. Finally, and only after a phone call to the man himself did she grudgingly allow Grissom to come in to the back entrance of the Georgetown townhouse, grumbling the entire time.

Out in the van, Grissom was aware of Miss Chocolate quietly laughing. Her voice carried through the earpiece of the thick, black-framed glasses he wore as he quietly set his bag on the kitchen table and began assembling the Arado. “So, she gave you a hard time?”

“She’s probably worried about pissing off her boss,” Grissom replied softly, pushing up his spectacles. “The Senator isn’t the easiest man in Washington to work for.”

“Probably not. Let me know when you’re ready to go and I’ll turn the screen on.”

A few moments later he was moving slowly through the hallway, pretending to sweep and mumbling softly into the mouthpiece as he did so. “Okay, going through to the back rooms now. For the record, I don’t think he’s got any termites.”

“That’s good. I kind of wondered why a brownstone would even NEED an inspection,” Miss Chocolate lightly commented. Grissom swept the metal detector over the edges of the wall very carefully.

“The support joists for a building like this are often wood, and if one of them weakens it compromises the stability of the wall. So, into the study we go—“

A thorough sweep in the room revealed some lost pocket change, a few bobby pins and nothing else. Grissom reached in a pocket of his jumpsuit and pulled out another piece of gum; in his earpiece, Miss Chocolate cleared her throat. “What if he doesn’t have a safe? Or what if he’s got one but it’s in his office?”

“This brownstone was built in the late twenties and inhabited by politicians almost exclusively; statistically speaking it’s got to have some sort of vault security in it somewhere,” Grissom muttered. “And as for the idea that the camera is at his office—I don’t think so. It’s a personal item of blackmail. He wouldn’t risk having an office worker or secretary see it. No, it’s got to be here, somewhere.”

“Okay then—that leaves one room,” she replied cautiously. “We’re coming up on the half hour mark.”

“Bedroom,” Grissom agreed, and made it a point to lumber loudly through the townhouse. When he reached the Senator’s bedroom he stood for a moment and peeked in, assessing the layout. It was a back room, with a fireplace and a low slanting ceiling. Grissom stepped in and eyed the walls carefully, sweeping the loop head of the Arado from baseboard to ceiling. The first wall showed nothing but a few blips where the studs were, but the second wall, the partition between the bedroom and bathroom, made the metal detector hum.

Grissom looked carefully in the little hallway between the bedroom and bathroom, noting a fuse box inset on the wall. Carefully he tugged open the door and peered in, noting the circuit switches and labels on them. Then, he carefully stuck a finger under the lip of the edge and tugged; the back panel of fake switches swung open to reveal the front of a dull grey wall safe, small and solid. 

Instead of a dial, there was a keypad on the bottom of it, and Grissom stared at it carefully, trying not to grin.

“We have safe,” he murmured gently.

“Oh?”

“It’s behind the fuse panel between the bedroom and bathroom. Small, with a keypad.” As he spoke, Grissom set the Arado down and fished in his jumpsuit pocket for a little box, opening it to reveal a disc of red powder and a brush. He carefully dusted the keypad, making sure to coat each key evenly. Through the infrared filter of his glasses, three numbers were whiter with heavy fingerprints on them, and he studied them carefully. Miss Chocolate’s voice came in his ear again. “A car just pulled up—a Miata. A woman’s getting out.”

“Time to pack up,” Grissom assured her, and carefully wiped the keypad clean before closing the false back and outer door of the fuse box. He went through the motions of sweeping through the bathroom and flushed the toilet before moving back out into the hall. He could hear voices from the kitchen, and headed that way, making sure to walk heavily as he disassembled the Arado and began packing it up.

“Okay, you’re looking good here. I’d say you ought to keep an eye on the north east side since I did spot a little dampness there and termites will flock to any rotting wood. I’d suggest maybe spraying around February, and we can set that up for you if you like,” Grissom announced in a slightly bored tone.

The housekeeper gave a curt nod of relief. “Fine. I tol’ you there were no boogs. I keep a clean house, inside and out.”

“Yes, Mira, we know you do, we know you do,” the other woman murmured soothingly, reaching for the clipboard that Grissom held out. “So, spraying in February—can your company call back then to set up an appointment?”

“Yes ma’am. We’re hoping to do the entire block, and I can put you on our list if you like,” he rattled on, keeping his gaze down. The woman signing the receipt was a lean strawberry blonde with a slightly preoccupied air. She handed back the clipboard. Grissom noted her designer linen pants suit, diamond tennis bracelet and her manicured nails. He took the paperwork back and tore off the top sheet, handing it to her.

“Fine, put us on the list then. I’m just glad you’re done before our party tonight, so if you don’t mind . . .” she trailed off and Grissom blew a huge bubble with his gum, nodding. He clunked his way out of the house, tossing the bag with the disassembled Arado in the front seat. Carefully he backed the van out of the driveway and moved down the street, giving a sigh of relief.

“Problem?” came Miss Chocolate’s voice.

He sighed. “Lady of the house. I thought the Senator was a widower.”

“He is. Has a few women on the side, but he hasn’t gotten serious with anyone."

“Then who’s the hostess I met in the kitchen?” Grissom asked, pulling the van into the parking lot of a Dunkin’ Donuts shop. He parked and went to the side, opening up the sliding door. Miss Chocolate climbed out, looking every bit as cute as he knew she would in her matching Truman’s Termite Terminators jumpsuit. 

She pulled the scarf from her hair and shook her head as she pulled the earpiece out of her ear. “I think she’s the Senator’s daughter. I remember reading that she acts as hostess for some of his parties and goes to some of the state events with him.”

Grissom frowned a little. “If she’s there tonight, I need to make sure she doesn’t recognize me then. That would be a bad thing.”

Miss Chocolate shot him a sidelong glance, nodding slowly, but his attention was on the bookstore a few doors down from the donut shop. He hesitated, then looked at her, his expression almost . . . embarrassed.

“Would you mind terribly if I stopped in there?” he asked, politely.

* * *

Bonifant was filled with tall cases, and some of the aisles were a little cramped, but Sara didn’t mind. She and Mr. Peppermint received a few curious glances from the grey-haired clerk but after a quick once-over, she smiled and turned back to the carton of books she was busy sorting. The by now familiar scent of paper and wood made Sara smile, and she parted company with Mr. Peppermint after a little nod.

It was easy to get engrossed in the selections. 

Bonifant was well-organized and uncrowded at this point in the day. Sara made her way down the hobbies and crafts aisle, idly reading the titles when a particular one jumped out at her: Do-It-Yourself Boat Repair and Maintenance.

Sara pulled it out and examined it, feeling a surge of delight well up inside her. The pictures were clear, and the step by step directions fairly concise—she flipped to the inside cover and checked the price in the corner, feeling smug when it ended up being at least two dollars cheaper than she’d been willing to pay.

A bargain.

Feeling pleased with herself, she tucked the book under her arm and went looking for Mr. Peppermint, wondering where she would find him. A part of her mind logically argued he’d be in the mystery or spy section, but a quick peek down that particular aisle proved her wrong. Curious, Sara wandered towards the back of the store, finally spotting his broad frame standing in front of . . . the Romance shelves.

It had to be a fluke, she decided.

But no, as she approached, she noted that he not only had a Barbara Cartland in his hands, but three others tucked in the crook of his arm. He was scanning the inside cover of the paperback, his expression slightly . . . pained.

He looked up, and Sara grinned broadly at him.  
Mr. Peppermint blushed. “These aren’t for me,” he mumbled in a note of slightly mortified sincerity.

Sara said nothing, cocking her head.

He cleared his throat. “They’re . . . for my mother.”

“Your mother.”

“My mother. She’s eighty-two, and a serial Romance reader. I can’t keep the woman in Harlequins,” Mr. Peppermint admitted with a sigh. “She goes through Regencys like potato chips.”

Sara laughed, letting her head drop back as she pictured a little white-haired woman voraciously reading through a stack of yellowing paperbacks while Mr. Peppermint tried frantically to keep handing new ones to her.

“It could be worse . . . she could be addicted to online gambling, or collecting Precious Moments figurines,” she offered after her chuckles died away. Mr. Peppermint considered those alternatives with a faint wince and nodded.

“You have a point. In any case, I’m fairly sure she hasn’t read any of these, so I might as well feed her inexpensive habit. Once she’s done I can always recycle them through the Book Hive.”

Sara nodded, and the two of them looked at each other for a moment. She felt that little tug of attraction again; the one that didn’t have anything to do with the Candy Shop, and everything to do with how blue his eyes were.

Then she led the way back to the front of the store, reaching the cash register first; at the sight of her selection, Mr. Peppermint’s eyebrow went up but he said nothing. They left the shop a few minutes later and climbed into the termite van.

“So now what?”

“Now we go our separate ways—at least for a while,” Mr. Peppermint told Sara. “I have to return the van, pick up the dinner party invitations, rent a suit and see if Gum Drop managed to locate and purchase another Bell and Howell Zoomatic camera.”

“Hmmm,” Sara nodded. “And I have to find appropriate eveningwear and rent a car. Are we actually going to stay for dinner?” she mused, glancing over at him. Mr. Peppermint managed a small smile and thoughtfully stroked his beard.

“Depends on how hungry we are I suppose. Most Senators host pretty elaborate soirees.”

They drove in companionable silence for a while longer, and Sara finally spoke up. “It seems so . . . mercenary. You know, to steal his blackmail collateral AND eat dinner on his tab.”

“You’re a taxpayer; you’ve paid for it,” Mr. Peppermint told her forthrightly. “The Senator is having it catered because it’s an entertainment expense, so I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

“Well in THAT case,” Sara smirked. “Bring on the spinach puffs.”

***

She spent a busy afternoon shopping. Normally it wasn’t one of her favorite activities at all; but because of time constraints she hadn’t had a chance to pack too much, and there was the camera to consider. Finally, after a quick stop in Macklin’s Theatrical Supply, Sara took on the elegant boutiques of downtown Georgetown in quick succession, arriving back at the Liberty Guest House by three in the afternoon. She flipped the Do Not Disturb card onto her door handle and settled in for a quick nap, wondering sleepily if Mr. Peppermint was back from his own errands yet.

By the time five o’clock rolled around she was up again, glad to hear the soft knock on her door. Opening it she admitted him and he gave her a smile as he set a paper bag on the dresser. Sara eyed the squat paper parcel.

“Successful afternoon?”

“Remarkably. I picked up the camera at an antique shop and cleaned it up a bit, then found a formalwear place a few doors down—I hope you don’t object to paisley.”

“The whole suit?” Sara made a face, visions of Mr. Peppermint looking like a refugee from a Peter Max painting. He smiled gently and shook his head.

“Vest only—just tacky enough to give the professor a personality. Oh, and here—” carefully he fished in his pocket and pulled out three different wedding rings, holding them out to her, “Details matter.”

“Wow, I guess so . . .” she murmured, amused. She selected one and slipped it on, feeling the coolness of the band against her skin. “This one fits.”

“Good,” Mr. Peppermint commented absently. He was unwrapping the package and concentrating as Sara stepped over. She studied the camera with an approving look, nodding to herself as she handed back the other two rings. He took them and tucked them away. “Think you can fit this in your purse?”

Sara shot him a disbelieving look. “Um, no. An evening formal takes a clutch, usually no more than fifteen inches by seven, Mr. Peppermint.”

He looked nonplussed; his brows drew together in worry but Sara cleared her throat and spoke again, her tone confident. “Don’t worry. I have it covered. The bigger concern is the combination. Three numbers give us waaay too many options, unless you’ve managed to narrow them down.”

“I have a hunch,” Mr. Peppermint nodded. “The three numbers we have are nine, five and three, and because we know most people set a combination to a date they remember, we have three that might fit the bill. Either it’s the Senator’s birthday—September of thirty-five, or it’s his daughter’s—March of fifty-nine, OR it could be his granddaughter’s, May of ninety-three.”

Sara stared at Mr. Peppermint for a long, long moment. She very quietly murmured, “You . . . don’t get out much, do you?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing softly. “I’m no mathematician but the precedent IS with human nature, Miss Chocolate.”

***

Two hours later, after a shower and a shave, Grissom adjusted his bow tie, delighted that it was a clip-on. The muted silver and blue of the paisley pattern reminded him of an oil slick on the surface of a pond; iridescent. He stroked his chin, trying to get used to the smoothness and examined himself in the mirror.

Something was missing. Frowning, he considered himself a moment longer, then fished out his reading glasses, settling them on the bridge of his nose. Satisfied, Grissom scooped up the invitations to the dinner party, then stepped across the hall to Miss Chocolate’s room.

She opened the door, and he blinked, stunned.

She smiled broadly at him, her dimples showing.

“You shaved,” she noted.

“You’re pregnant,” he blurted.

Miss Chocolate looked down at the rounded bulge of her tummy, now rounding out a sleeveless crystal beaded top and pretended to be surprised. “Wow, how did THAT happen?”

Grissom arched an eyebrow at her, but couldn’t hold his straight expression a moment longer and grinned. Miss Chocolate grinned back and when she did, he noticed the second thing that was different about her. His gaze narrowed in on her teeth, and she gave a self-conscious smile.

“Your—”

“You can say it. My gap. I have this orthodontic piece that fills it in. I suppose I could wear it more often . . .”

“Don’t. That is . . . I like you better without it,” Grissom admitted, feeling warm in the face as he said so. The smile Miss Chocolate gave him at that moment left him awash in new heat. She broke their gaze and cleared her throat, inviting him in to her room.

“Thanks. So—I have baby Bell and Howell all tucked away here, and now it’s up to us to figure out a way to get me into the Senator’s bedroom. I’m thinking contractions.”

Grissom gave a thoughtful nod and checked his watch. “A few Braxton-Hicks; nothing too alarming, but enough that you may need to lie down.”

Sara stared at him, pausing as she reached for her tiny green velvet clutch purse. “How do you know about contractions?”

“Ah. That would be telling,” he responded, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “Shall we go?”

He escorted her to the rental car, mindful to help Miss Chocolate in, and took his time in pulling out into traffic. Out of the corner of his vision he saw her absently stroke the rounded padding around her middle, and the sight sent an odd pang through him; to cover it, Grissom spoke up.

“The name on my driver’s license tonight says Gideon Pfefferminz, and I’m associated with the entomology department of the Smithsonian. I received this invitation because of my forensic consulting work with the FBI. What shall I call you tonight—besides ‘dear’?”

Miss Chocolate lifted her chin; her profile looked lovely against the backdrop of Washington lights.  
“Felicity,” she murmured, thinking for a moment. “We met two years ago when we kept taking the same elevator together. Coffee led to lunch which led to a few other things in the course of time. We’ve picked out names for the baby, but opted not to know the sex.”

“Ah. And how far along are we?” Grissom prompted, amused at her casual certainty. Miss Chocolate fished in her purse for a compact, and checked her lipstick.

“Gideon, you KNOW the Bugling is due in five weeks, and Doctor Phair says I need to stay away from alcohol and minced clams.”

“Allergic?”

“No, I just don’t like them.”

“How could I forget, Felicity? You swept into my staid little insect-oriented world and turned me overnight into a devoted husband and slightly nervous father-to-be. Good thing I have the ring to prove it.” So saying, Grissom fished in his vest pocket and pulled out a wedding band, carefully working it onto his finger. Miss Chocolate studied it with approval.

“Where did we get married? It better not have been Busch Gardens,” She warned.

“Annapolis. In a park. Afterwards you tried to teach me to skip stones in the pond and I nearly killed a duck with a bad throw,” Grissom murmured gently while Miss Chocolate snorted against the back of her hand. He shot her a gentle look. “I’m not very athletic.”

“That’s okay. You have lots of other wonderful qualities.” She paused and added, “And the duck recovered.”

Grissom chuckled, warmed unexpectedly by the gentle whimsy of the moment; this shared whistling in the dark. They turned into Georgetown proper, quickly reaching the townhouse and parking nearly a block away because there were already cars lining both sides of the narrow street. He eyed the dark sky as they headed to the townhouse, and something in his expression made her follow his gaze upward. “Afraid it’s going to rain?”

“Hoping it won’t. Rain will coop everyone inside, and make it harder to get to the bedroom.”

Miss Chocolate nodded, and then they were at the front door, in the glare of the porch light and ringing the bell. The door opened, and Grissom looked at the same strawberry blonde woman from earlier in the day; she smiled too brightly; a clear sign she didn’t recognize him. Grissom nodded at her.

“The Pfefferminzes—Gideon and Felicity?” he prompted, almost apologetically. “From the Smithsonian?”

“Oh, oh! Yes, the liaison for the FBI on that serial killer case! Oh goodness, come in!” came the woman’s warm tones. “I’m Catherine Willows, and I’m hosting this for my father tonight, so please, let’s get you both inside and find something to drink!”

Grissom found himself quietly proud of the way Miss Chocolate waddled in, looking radiant and serene. Immediately Mrs. Willows beamed. “Oh wow; congratulations!”

“Thank you. I’ve got about a month to go,” she dimpled, shooting him a quick look of affection.  
Warming to his role, Grissom slid an arm around her back and squeezed lightly. “It all happened so fast . . .”

“Yes well it sure seems that way in the last couple of weeks,” Mrs. Willows agreed. “Anyway, let me introduce you around . . . we’re pretty casual at the moment.”

Despite her words the room looked immensely elegant with fresh cut flowers in fancy crystal, and well-dressed people making small talk in little groups scattered through the salon. Carefully Grissom steered Miss Chocolate in and smiled as Mrs. Willows made introductions to a few of the other guests; he was careful not to overdo his doting image.

After twenty minutes or so the room fell silent in one of those universal pauses in the conversation that can sweep through, and into the void came a low, almost musical voice. “All right, nice to see you folks tonight. Having a good time?”

Senator Samuel Braun looked out over the assembled group, his face smiling, his sharp eyes unreadable. The man radiated a ruthless good-nature, but hints of a quick temper made his mouth occasionally turn down, and his gaze missed very little. Grissom felt the senator’s attention sweep over him after a single piercing stare; fortunately one of the caterers moved by, offering champagne and the moment passed. Next to him, Miss Chocolate let out a soft sigh.

“He’s . . . a little scary,” she admitted. Grissom nodded, leaning in to reply.

“And dangerous. We know first-hand that he’s a blackmailer and I doubt his crimes stop there.”

Miss Chocolate nodded, and looked towards the buffet line, where people were already beginning to congregate. She lightly stroked the bulge of her belly and managed a quick smile, batting her eyes. “Do you think they have any potatoes au gratin?”

“Let’s go find out, shall we?”

*** *** ***

Catherine Willows looked over the assembled group and felt a sense of satisfaction tempered with an undercurrent of anxiety. The party was going well, just as she’d promised Sam, but his mood was still prickly, and try as she might, she couldn’t shake the feeling that another ‘discussion’ was coming soon. What this one would be about, she wasn’t sure, but whatever the topic, it sure as hell wouldn’t be pleasant, given how much he was drinking.

She sighed, wishing not for the first time that she was more than just an extension of her father’s political influence. There was a time she’d wanted a real career; a chance to go back to school and DO something with her life beyond hosting parties and lobbying. But Eddie wouldn’t hear of it, and Sam kept her busy with his own political agenda. And then after Eddie died— _was murdered_ , she amended bitterly—then there was Lindsey and more pressure from Sam to stay in Washington, hooking up people to people and making things happen behind the scenes.

And frankly things with Sam were getting . . . bad. Not that her father’s hands had ever been particularly clean, but of late Catherine realized he had secrets that she didn’t ever want to know. All she had left now was Lindsey, and her own reputation, for whatever that was worth. Given the political climate, her days as a hostess were probably limited too, and God knew what she would end up doing once Sam was out of office . . .

She caught a glimpse of the couple from the Smithsonian, sitting together on one of the love seats, plates in their hands. They looked adorable, and for a moment Catherine smiled at the sight of them—clearly the nerdy professor adored his young wife, and by the shy glances she was giving him the feeling seemed to be mutual.

Catherine remembered a time when she and Eddie had been like that—slightly besotted and trying to be discreet about it. She walked over to them and this time her smile was sincere. “How are you two doing?”

“Good,” the young wife—what was her name?—blurted. “I love your stuffed mushrooms.”

“Oh thanks, but I can’t really take credit—it’s the catering company’s recipe,” Catherine replied honestly. At that moment the young wife winced, and bent forward a little. Concerned, Catherine took a step closer. “Are you okay?”

“I think someone else liked the mushrooms too,” came the woman’s little choked laugh. “Um, I really hate to ask this, but do you have someplace I could . . . lie down for a minute?”

“Oh—ah, sure, yes, of course,” Catherine smoothly replied. She watched the husband rub his wife’s back and murmur gently to her; to give them a moment of privacy Catherine looked away, smiling to herself.

Once the woman was on her feet she chuckled a little. “It’s nothing serious, honestly, but a few minutes on my back and the baby will tire itself out. I hope.”

“How are we doing here?” came Senator Braun’s concerned question. He looked at his daughter and then at the pregnant woman, who blushed. 

Catherine managed a tight smile for her father.  
“She just needs a few minutes to lie down, Sam—she’s going to be fine.”

“Well that’s good. You know, if you have the baby here, I get to be the first to contribute to the college fund,” he joked lightly. Everyone managed a smile at that, and Senator Braun slipped a supportive arm around the young mother-to-be. “Right this way, we’ll get you situated comfortably. Mugs, I think Congressman Ibarra’s glass is empty,” he added. Catherine nodded, and reluctantly moved back to the other guests after giving the nervous father-to-be a pat on the arm.

“The first one’s always the most nerve-wracking. You guys will be fine,” she assured him. He blinked at her through his glasses, and in his gaze Catherine saw a quiet core of something more than just the surface of blue.

“Thank you,” he told her gently, and moved to follow the Senator and his wife.

***

Grissom sat on the edge of the bed, looking carefully at Miss Chocolate and waiting. They both heard the receding footsteps, muffled slightly by the carpet out in the hall. A minute later, he stood up, locked the door, and reached into his coat pocket to pull out a pair of latex gloves.

Miss Chocolate grinned broadly. “You’re prepared for a home delivery.”

“To work,” he chided, but with a twinkle in his gaze. Carefully Grissom stepped to the wall between the bedroom and the bathroom, slipping his index finger into the ring of the fuse box panel and tugging it open. He pulled the false back of the box open as well and looked at the safe face carefully.  
Miss Chocolate rose off the bed and turned her back to him as she lifted her beaded blouse and undid the belt for her padded belly. Working quickly she unzipped the back and pulled out the Bell and Howell Zoomatic camera, being careful to handle it by the grip. She walked around the bed and towards Grissom, watching him intently.

He tapped in the first set of numbers—9, 3, 5.  
The light above the keypad flashed green.

“Happy birthday, Senator.” With a smirk of satisfaction, Grissom gripped the handle and turned it, pulling the little door open and looking inside. There, on top of a stack of folders and amid a few jewelry boxes and bundles of photos sat another Bell and Howell Zoomatic movie camera. Grissom reached in and took it out, handing it to Miss Chocolate while taking the other one from her.

Smoothly he set the new camera into the safe, and paused; over his shoulder he murmured, “Go tuck our prize in—I want to look at something here.”

“Okay,” she replied, already turning away. Grissom took a step closer to the safe and reached out a finger to flip through the first stack of photos, feeling a surge of adrenaline rise through him when he recognized what he was looking at. Swiftly he shifted to a second stack, and pulled the files out enough to read the labels on them. A sudden sound brought him back; swiftly Grissom pushed everything further into the safe and closed the door.

He carefully re-latched the false back to the fuse box, closed the fuse box door as well, and then looked over at Miss Chocolate.

She was trying to hook up the belt of her false belly and having trouble, so he came around and worked the Velcro strap for her just as they both heard footsteps coming back down the hall. Miss Chocolate tugged her beaded top down, smoothing it frantically as Grissom moved to the door and lightly, swiftly unlocked it.

“I brought you some water,” came the voice of their hostess. Grissom smiled at Miss Chocolate, but she was looking panicked as he began to turn the doorknob.

“Gloves!” she whispered frantically. He glanced down at his latex-covered hands, but the door was already opening.


	4. Chapter 4

_“The only reason the Candy Shop exists is because they do the stuff the rest of us don’t really want to touch, you know? Our guys are out to make money, and the Feds are in it for the law, but the Candy Shop? They’re in it for the justice. God knows why—there can’t be that much money in it. Maybe it’s job satisfaction, you know?”_

**\--Anthony Migliore, Capo, Lucchese Family**

 

“Oh THANK you!” Miss Chocolate called out firmly, smiling at Catherine Willows. “I really needed something to drink!” Carefully she reached out for the cup proffered to her. Behind Ms. Willows’ back, Grissom carefully, swiftly rolled off his gloves and shoved them deep in his pockets. Miss Chocolate made a big production out of drinking, managing to choke a bit as well; Ms. Willows leaned over, reaching for Kleenex on the nightstand and handing it to her.

“Ohh! Careful now, it’s just a little water—”

“Wrong . . . pipe,” came Miss Chocolate’s coughing response. Grissom moved to rub her spine soothingly. He shot their hostess an apologetic look over the top of his glasses.

“Perhaps it would probably be better if Felicity and I just . . . called it an evening,” he suggested in a soft voice. “We don’t want to put anybody out, and I’m sure the Senator has more than enough company tonight.”

“If you’re sure,” Ms. Willows replied, trying not to let her relief show. Miss Chocolate turned, and in a sweetly natural move, gently curled into his arm, her face pressed shyly against the side of his neck. Grissom felt his eyelids flutter as he fought against an answering surge of attraction. Ms. Willows chuckled softly.

“I’m glad you could make it though—may I call you a cab, or have our driver take you home?”

“We drove, but thank you,” Grissom managed, his voice only hinting at huskiness. The feel of Miss Chocolate molded to him, fitting against his chest like a long lost piece . . . she pulled away from him and sighed.

“I hate to make any trouble,” Miss Chocolate admitted, but Ms. Willows reached out to gently stroke her shoulder.

“You’re not—it’s all part of motherhood, so don’t even worry about it.”

*** *** ***

It had just started to rain; Sara watched with satisfaction as the carton went into the UPS truck with several others. She flipped open her cell phone and dialed as she stepped out of the store, glad Mr. Peppermint picked up on the first ring.  
“It’s shipped.”

“Good. Insured?”

“Yep. I’m catching the eleven-forty flight out today. Rendezvous at the Shop?”

“I have the three-thirty-seven out this afternoon. We’ll meet up tomorrow at the Shop and debrief with Miss L. Got your receipts?” came his cool, businesslike tone.

Sara fought a hint of irritation, and responded in as neutral a voice as she could manage. “Down to the parking validation. See you then.”

“Yes . . .” She heard him pause, and a little flare of hope went up in her chest. He added, “I have your book. I’ll bring it.”

Sara blinked, and as she hung up wondered why she felt both happy and sad.

The flight into Vegas was boring; she’d given up on reading, and there were only so many distractions around her on the flight. Sara still hadn’t turned her cell back on for anything more than the quick call to Mr. Peppermint, and even now knew there were messages on it from Hank that she was going to have to deal with very soon.

To stop herself from brooding about it, Sara turned her thoughts back to the enigmatic Mr. Peppermint. The night before, they’d driven back from the party in silence, and he’d retreated to his room to pack up the Bell and Howell with scarcely a ‘good night’ to her. Sara suspected she was reading too much into it, but it hurt to think that the rapport between them was off, and more so because she wasn’t sure if she’d done something to offend him.

Maybe he was the sort that went flat at the denouement, Sara mused. Some agents were like that—once the thrill of the case was over, the paperwork and debriefing were of no interest to them. And yet—his attention to detail was as meticulous as ever. He’d collected the wedding rings and turned in their IDs already, and had begun the preliminary report for Miss Lollipop.

Sara sighed. It had been fun, working with Mr. Peppermint; fun in a way that was different from tackling a mission with Jelly Bean. It felt more like a partnership, from the minute they’d walked into Bruce Eiger’s mansion right up until this morning. She stirred restlessly, wishing that the flight was over and this melancholy mood would lift, but aware that both would take time.

* * *

The first person Sara saw when she stepped off the elevator was Mr. Cinnamon, who smiled at her in gentle greeting. He had an armful of casing boxes, and she offered to take one but he shook his blonde, curly head. “Thanks but I’ve got it—hey, you still sold on that twenty-two I issued you?”

“It’s still good for me. Why? Got something else in up your sleeve?” she asked curiously. He flashed a smile at her, eyes twinkling as he shifted the boxes once more.

“Always, Miss Chocolate. Come on down to ma’ armory when you have a moment; I’ve got a little piece I thank would suit you better.”

“Well if you’re offering,” she replied, smirking. Cinnamon laughed and headed down the hall towards the frosted glass doors of the firing range.

Sara walked in the opposite direction, to the offices.  
Here she saw Gum Drop through the clear glass of his lab, working with some smoking chemical; he gave her a nod while keeping his attention of the billowing clouds between his gloved hands. Further on, Sara saw Toffee, looking long and elegant working with JuJube over a brass and crystal clock face.

And in the farthest glass walled room, Jelly Bean was subtly stalking a woman.

Sara grinned, and stopped to watch him in action, her arms crossing as she took in the sight of the self-proclaimed Sultan of Swipe moving in casual grace around his target, sipping his coffee, working his charm and smiling at her. She sat on a stool, reading a copy of Carnivorous Plants of South America, seemingly unimpressed by the Bean’s smooth play. Sara stepped closer to the glass, and heard him faintly talking through it.

“ . . . And of course the only person they could come to was me, because hey, I’ve saved just about everyone’s keister around here—Whoa, sorry, sorry, let me get you some napkins,” came his chagrined voice. If Sara hadn’t been watching carefully she would have missed how deftly Jelly Bean slipped an arm around his victim and at the same time palmed off her security badge, watch and one earring as he helped her wipe off the coffee he had spilled on her.

“Thanks. Now give them back,” she ordered him, her expression slightly jaded, despite the smirk on the corner of her pretty mouth. The Bean looked hurt, and shot Sara a beseeching look through the glass. It didn’t help; both she and the victim continued to give him knowing stares.

“Not fair—tag teamed by the two hottest babes in the building! I surrender already,” Jelly Bean grumbled good-naturedly, handing back the pilfered items. The woman finally did smile, and patted his shoulder reassuringly.

“If you hadn’t copped a feel at the same time you were swiping my badge I MIGHT have missed it,” she told him. Jelly Bean blushed, but managed a sheepish grin.

“What can I say, Miss Lemon Drop? You’re all woman, and SO tempting a target!”

Laughing, the woman chucked him under the chin and rose up from her stool, tucking her magazine under her arm. “Yeah, well flattery gets you a lot of forgiveness, Boy Toy. Just don’t spill your coffee too often, okay?”

“Gotcha,” he murmured, pointing his finger at her departing figure for emphasis. Sara leaned in the doorway, laughing softly.

“Why is it that you do all your practicing on women, Greg?”

He gave her an incredulous stare. “That was rhetorical, right? So how did your Switcharoo go with our legendary Mr. Peppermint?”

“Good,” Sara admitted. “Smoother than I thought it would. Tell me; is he always so . . . meticulous?” She’d wanted to ask ‘withdrawn’ but changed it at the last second. Jelly Bean gave a nod.

“Oh yeah, he’s not a guy to leave things to chance, no way. The first time I worked with him he had not only a plan A, but plans B, C, D and I swear, and E as well. He told me that he never took on a case unless he’d mentally walked through each one of his plans at least twice. Me, I think it’s a little anal-retentive, but then again, my specialty is all about spontaneity and moments of opportunity, you know?”

“True,” Sara agreed thoughtfully. “So—got anything going at the moment?”

Jelly Bean preened. “Well, not to brag, but Miss Lollipop’s got me earmarked to take a local celebrity down, big time. It’s not good when Big Names get too greedy, you know?”

“Big names?” Sara prodded, amused at Jelly Bean’s glee.

He rubbed his hands and flashed a grin. “Oh yeah—Uncle Chip of the Strip is goin’ down, thanks to the Bean and his incredible skillz.”

“Oh. My God. Uncle Chip?” Sara snorted, bursting into full-fledged giggles. “The Used Car King of Las Vegas? The one who does all his own commercials? The guy in that gross plaid suit?”

“Absolutely. The guy’s been running three dealerships for the last twenty years, and yeah everybody acts like he’s some corny institution, but he rips off people like Band-Aids. The Better Business Bureau has a file on him bigger than Ronnie—er, Marshmallow—and Miss Lollipop told me that our client is an off-the-record Fed, so it’s all to the good.”

“And—how are you going to do it?” Sara asked, intrigued despite herself. Jelly Bean smiled, and tapped the side of his nose, looking sly and adorable at the same time.

“I have my ways, Miss Chocolate, I have my ways. So when are you coming out here to stay, huh?” he demanded, his tone half in jest, half in earnest.

Sara’s mouth twitched a little, and she sighed.  
“It’s not that easy to move my digs—especially to a desert, Greg.”

“Hello? Lake Mead, just up the road. You can moor your baby there y’know. Lots of people do it.”

“Yeah, I know,” she replied noncommittally, pushing herself off of the doorframe and looking towards the debriefing room.

*** *** ***

Miss Lollipop settled herself in the chair at the tea table and reached for the pot. It was a lovely green porcelain one, done with a bamboo motif along the lid, and she looked at both her guests, smiling gently. The three of them were around a linen-covered tea table on a pavilion in the far corner of the garden.

“I’ll play Mother then,” she commented gently, and poured for Miss Chocolate, watching the steam curl up from the earthenware cup in front of the woman. Carefully Miss Lollipop poured again, this time into Mr. Peppermint’s cup, and then served herself as the soft sweet sounds of the garden around them filled the little emptiness at the table. She watched as Mr. Peppermint reluctantly added two cubes of sugar to his tea, and Miss Chocolate wrapped her narrow graceful hands around the bowl of her cup, enjoying the warmth seeping through the ceramic.

“So things went well back East?” she prompted gently, picking up her own cup and sipping it casually. Mr. Peppermint shot Miss Chocolate a look and nodded.

“Extremely. We were able to exchange the item in question without a single problem.”

“Excellent! Have you returned it to the owner?”

Miss Chocolate shook her head. “Not yet. It’s due to arrive downstairs sometime this afternoon.”

“And when it does?” Miss Lollipop prompted gently, watching the body language of both of them surreptitiously; it amused her that despite their silence they mirrored each other, sitting like matching bookends on either side of the tea table.

“When it does, then we’ll deliver it to our client,” Mr. Peppermint replied, staring down into his tea.

Miss Lollipop nodded.“Of course. I understand that the switchboard has fielded several calls from him, so it will be a relief to be done with his business by tonight. Was there anything else of note about Grenville?”

For the first time Mr. Peppermint looked concerned; he glanced from Miss Chocolate to Miss Lollipop and spoke up quietly. “Yes. Along with the item in question, I saw several photos and files in the Senator’s possession. Some of the names on the files are of concern.”

“Such as?” Miss Lollipop asked. Miss Chocolate shifted forward, her gaze on Mr. Peppermint’s face.

He sighed. “Portia Richmond. Lois O’Neill. Sy Magli. Mayor Goodman,” he replied flatly. Miss Lollipop looked thoughtfully at the plate of cookies and selected one.

“Only to be expected. And the photos?”

Here Mr. Peppermint looked uneasy. He scowled and looked down into his tea cup. “More leverage for blackmail. Several pornographic candids, a few of murder scenes including that of his former son-in-law. There wasn’t time to document the evidence beyond observation.”

“Good call—and whatever you can write up and file away will be useful should we need to return to Senator Braun’s brownstone. Miss Chocolate, I need you and Mr. Bubblegum to process a copy of our client’s film before you and Mr. Peppermint return his camera to him—it may contain links to some of the other names in the Senator’s safe. More tea?”

“I’m fine, thank you. I’ll just go . . . and get started,” Miss Chocolate murmured, rising. Politely, Mr. Peppermint did as well, his manners showing. Miss Lollipop gestured to him to stay as Miss Chocolate murmured her thanks and left the garden.

Reluctantly Mr. Peppermint sat once more, and Miss Lollipop studied him carefully.

“I’ve made a mistake, teaming the two of you up. Clearly you’re uncomfortable with Miss Chocolate,” she began softly. Mr. Peppermint pursed his mouth, frowning.

“It’s not a mistake. She has a great deal of talent, and certainly enough experience and flair to be a tremendous asset to the Shop,” he pointed out slowly. Miss Lollipop said nothing, letting the silence grate a moment longer. Mr. Peppermint finally sighed, and looked around the well-tended garden, admiring it through the lattice walls of the pavilion. “Heather--she’s . . . young.”

“Ah,” Miss Lollipop hid her smile and cocked her head a little. “So is Jelly Bean.”

Mr. Peppermint shot her a dry look, and in it she saw not only his annoyance, but also his chagrin; generously she added, “She’s suited to you, Gil. You know everyone at the Shop works in teams. We’ve learned the hard way about loners.”

“So you’re giving me a choice—the girl or the rookie.”

“No, I’m giving you both,” Miss Lollipop smirked, pleased to see Mr. Peppermint twist his expression into a patient resignation. She leaned forward, her gaze turning serious for a long moment. “It’s been a long time since Los Angeles.”

He said nothing, but a bleak look flashed in his eyes, and for a moment the only sound was the soft chirp of a sparrow in the garden.

* * *

Grissom stared at his reflection in the rearview mirror of the Mercedes, absently adjusting his eye patch as he did so. The camera sat on the seat next to him, sealed in a plastic bag. It was after dark, and the low strains of “Laura” were drifting out of the speakers. Carefully he started the engine and headed to the rendezvous point, trying hard not to think of anything more than finishing up the mission.

Pointless though. Memories drifted through his mind, brought to the surface by Miss Lollipop’s last comment. It was certainly easy for her to believe it had all been a long time ago, but Grissom knew that for some hurts, time didn’t pass nearly at the same speed within them as in the real world. Some images, some memories were still so close and sharp under the surface of the mind that they brought all the ache and loss back into sharp focus.

Michelle.

She’d lied. She’d never been his, despite all their plans and dreams, Grissom realized. She’d never planned on leaving Ted. It was much easier to lie and keep him hoping for a future that wasn’t going to happen.

He knew it was small; this pain of betrayal, his broken heart. In the scheme of things it really didn’t matter. Everyday people faced love and loss and managed to get on with their lives just fine. Most of the time he didn’t think about it anymore, chalking it up to another life experience he simply didn’t care to repeat, thank you.

And then Miss Chocolate had to slide into his arms. She HAD to fit against him, warm and sweetly scented, bringing up a thousand hungry responses in an overwhelming wave of desire and shame. Grissom sighed, and his strong fingers tightened around the steering wheel, going white as he gripped it.

No. Not fair. She didn’t know and she wasn’t to blame. This was all his own damned fault. The girl had no idea of what was wrong with him, and he owed her civility at the very least, especially if they were going to be working together. Grissom gave a nod, feeling a bit better. Yes. Civility.

He could manage that.

When Miss Chocolate slid into the car ten minutes later he managed a smile at her, amused that she’d opted for a completely different outfit. This time she wore a long black sleeveless dress of some stretchy knit with a gleaming silver metal belt low on her slender hips. Her wig was a marvel too—long corkscrew red-purple curls dangling over her shoulders in a mane, making her look like a Gothic Raggedy Ann. She wore the same sunglasses though, and her smile was tentative.

Grissom smiled back at her. “Strawberry Shortcake, all grown up.”

She laughed, and the mood between them lightened considerably as she set the package on her lap and fastened her belt. The song on the radio ended, and the soft opening bars of “Quiet Village” came on. 

Miss Chocolate sighed.

“Bubble Gum and I managed to scan the film and make a copy before replacing it. I didn’t get too much of a look at it, but it seems to be a picnic movie,” she began softly. Grissom gritted his teeth and she nodded, grinning. “Exactly. The only real surprise is that um, he’s not alone in his fetish this time.”

“Baby has a friend?” Grissom asked, slightly appalled. Miss Chocolate’s grin widened.

“Baby has a Mommy. And Mommy likes to spank.”

Grissom drew in a deep breath, trying not to let the horrific images flood his mind. Next to him, Miss Chocolate was openly muffling her giggles against her palm. He shot her a sidelong look, managing a twisted grin as the car reached the gate outside Bruce Eiger’s mansion.

“Oh my.”

“Yes indeed. I didn’t recognize the woman, but Bubble Gum did, and now?” she paused for effect, then finished, “We know exactly who Mommy Dearest is.”

They pulled up to the front steps and climbed out of the car, taking a moment to stand before the mansion and study it once more. Grissom kept his eyes forward and his voice low.

“We have guns aimed at us.”

“I see them. Good thing I’m holding the camera at chest level.”

“These people would go with head shots—no doubt, no wasted effort,” he told her softly. “Let’s stroll.”

They walked up to the main doors and Grissom simply yanked it open, stepping inside quickly. Miss Chocolate followed him and they watched as the monolith they’d encountered the first time came bearing down on them, albeit more cautiously. He wore a wide bandage around his throat.

Miss Chocolate sauntered up and slipped her arm through the bodyguard’s, smiling up at him. “Hi. We’re here to see Bruce.”

Grissom watched the troll of a man glare down at her, his expression caught between anger and caution; clearly word of her talents had gotten out. The bodyguard slowly gestured with his head and escorted Miss Chocolate up the stairs while Grissom trailed behind, keeping his attention divided between the room around them and the flexing sweetness of Miss Chocolate’s bottom two steps up from his gaze.

She looked marvelous in black, he decided.

The three of them made their way down the hall to the study, and this time the bodyguard opened the door, ushering them both inside. Grissom moved to Miss Chocolate’s side and smiled benignly at the man behind the desk.

“I believe we have something of yours to return?”

Eiger’s attention was riveted to the plastic bag in Miss Chocolate’s hands; he licked his lips nervously. “So you say. How can I trust it’s MY camera?”

“Check it yourself—we’ll wait,” Grissom told him quietly. Eiger nodded to the bodyguard, who took the bag from Miss Chocolate and handed it to his boss. Carefully Eiger lifted it free of the plastic and examined it, checking the handle and lens carefully. He sighed a moment later.

“Mine, all right, down to the serial number. Where did you get it?”

“Ah. That’s not part of the agreement. All you need to know is that the Senator probably won’t be aware of his loss for a while. He’ll figure it out eventually, so you have time to deal with it when the fallout comes,” Grissom replied carefully.

Eiger’s piggy little eyes glittered, and he shot a smile across the table. “Beautiful. So what would it take to get you two to come work for me?” he grunted. “Because I sure as hell could use a pair of aces up my sleeve. Name your salaries, I’m good for it and better.”

Then Miss Chocolate moved. In a slow stalk, she sauntered around the huge mahogany desk and leaned in close to Bruce Eiger, her long purple-red curls bouncing with every step. Grissom couldn’t make out her husky whisper, but whatever her words were, they worked. Eiger paled, then blinked rapidly, clearing his throat.

Miss Chocolate straightened up and flashed a smile at Grissom, full and sweet.

“Fine, whatever—Now get the hell out of my house,” Eiger ordered, but his voice quavered a bit and Grissom noticed he was sweating. Miss Chocolate laughed softly and returned, flicking a curl over her shoulder. She slipped her arm through Grissom’s and they turned, not looking back at their client.

“So what did you say?” Grissom asked as they walked down the steps together, the natural tandem of their steps making conversation easy.

She laughed. “Ooh I just mentioned him   
that two mommies are a bad idea, and that he might want to remember King Solomon’s solution.”

Grissom flinched and managed a small smile. “Touché.”

“Thanks. I’ve got no plans to baby-sit anyone in this town, least of all Bruce Eiger.”

They’d reached the car again without incident, and Grissom noticed the bodyguards had all disappeared. Sighing, he paused on the topmost step and checked his watch. Miss Chocolate glanced at him. “What?”

“I didn’t think he was this stupid, but I guess he is. While we were inside, the goons planted a bomb in the car.”

Miss Chocolate looked at the Mercedes, eyes widening behind her sunglasses. “Not good.”

“Not good. Fortunately our ride is here.” He looked up as the soft drone of a helicopter grew louder. Grissom took Miss Chocolate’s arm and they ran to a clear spot on the lawn where the helicopter touched down. He helped her in; at the pilot’s seat, Licorice flashed them a welcoming smile.

“I think I DO get the bonus this time!” he told Grissom, who nodded. The helicopter rose up, and when they were nearly thirty feet in the air, Grissom pressed the automatic remote on the car key chain. Under them, the Mercedes erupted in a spectacular fireball of twisted metal, flames and smoke.

Grissom shook his head sadly, and ducked back into the helicopter, pulling the door shut. He peeled off his eye patch. “Damn. I really _liked_ that car, too.”

“Don’t worry—Miss Lollipop will send him a bill,” Licorice pointed out with a smile. “And we all know that jackass will pay up if he wants to ever use the Candy Shop again.”

*** *** ***

Sara looked out over the wharf, towards the rows of tethered boats floating quietly on the water. The sun had set and a thin purple twilight colored the waters of San Francisco Bay. She let her gaze focus on the boat in slip number 514: the _Boston Bohemian_. There, the lights shone through the portholes, and the faint sound of laughter drifted up from it, the mingled sound of male and female voices. Sara thinned her lips. Carefully, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed.

It rang. The boat went quiet. Someone picked up. “Hello?”

“Hi Hank. I’m on my way home, babe. See you in a few minutes.”

“Sara—“ she snapped the cell phone off and waited, leaning against one of the pilings and pulling her sweater coat more tightly around her. Gulls wheeled along the shoreline, and from berth 514 came the sounds of bumping and thumping. Finally two people clattered up the ladder to the deck. Sara watched them argue quietly for a while, then casually called out to them.

“Hey.”

They turned, panic-stricken, and Sara noted the little blonde actually moaned. Beside her, Hank stood uncertainly, the faint breeze stirring his hair. Sara took a step forward, holding out one thin palm.  
“I want,” she began quietly, “the wharf key. I want the two of you to go now, quietly before I call the police.”

“Sara, I can explain!” Hank began, blinking rapidly.

Sara shook her head. “There’s nothing TO explain, Hank. Get off my boat and go away.”

The blonde scrambled, moving over the deck and to the wharf quickly, darting past Sara without meeting her eyes. Hank stumbled after her, calling in a low voice. “Tawnie, wait! For God’s sake hang on!”

Sara reached out and snagged Hank’s hand, carefully rolling the pinkie up and squeezing it mercilessly. Hank gave a yelp of pain.

“Key.”

“Jesus! In my pocket, don’t break my finger!” he whined, fishing out the tarnished wharf gate key. Sara took it and let go of his hand. Hank stared at her, his eyes wide, his look both petulant and fearful as he ran a hand through his hair. “Sara, let me just say something.”

“Let ME say something,” Sara interrupted brusquely. “I have a gun.”

Hank quivered, then quickly strode away towards the dock, glancing once behind him as Sara watched him go.

She felt . . . nothing. No relief, no pain, just an emptiness; like a shelf clear of clutter, or a closet with a few bare hangers. It was an odd sensation, and she turned to face the _Boston Bohemian_ , feeling a low pang deep in her stomach. Carefully she made her way onto the boat, glad to feel the shift of it under her feet as she walked to the stern and looked out over the twinkling lights of the Bay.

Her cell phone rang. Sara flipped it open, prepared to hang up, but the voice caught her by surprise.

“Hello. I . . . wanted to make sure you got home safely,” came Mr. Peppermint’s soft, hesitant voice. Sara gripped the phone a little more tightly in her hand and leaned over the rail, feeling a rush of sensation into the void.

Such a little thing.

“I’m . . . home. Thanks,” she sighed, and smiled out over the water.

 

_Coming next:_ **Wheeling, Nevada**


End file.
